


mercy

by envysparkler



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Broken Bones, Enemy to Caretaker, Gen, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Whump, and Tim has justifiable reason to be terrified of him, only he wasn't always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27798544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/envysparkler/pseuds/envysparkler
Summary: “Replacement,” Hood growled, “I know you’re in here.”(What’s the difference between a rescue and a kidnapping?)
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 98
Kudos: 1203
Collections: Jason and Tim Enemy-to-Caretaker





	mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Ignoring my long, long list of batfam ideas to write the Tim & Jason enemy-to-caretaker idea that just popped into my head, or: a typical weekend.
> 
> Content warnings: implications of what happens to kids on the streets, casual murder via gunshot.

They had left him alone, which told a sorry story about the general competence of the average thug in Gotham. Tim was the _third_ Robin to wear the red-green-yellow, surely by now they should’ve figured out that all of them were escape artists.

Of course, it was a bit more difficult with the knife wound in his side, but he was _Robin_. Besides, the blood didn’t even show against his costume.

Tim wrapped his fingers around the rope and forced them to clench, alleviating some of the searing fire in his shoulders as he dangled two inches from the ground. Prime position for kicking, if he hadn’t twisted his ankle falling out of the rafters.

Tim took a deep breath and pulled, kicking his legs up – oh, shit, that _burned_ , he’d forgotten about the broken ribs – and strangled the scream as he forced his legs high enough to catch the rope between his ankles.

The twisted ankle. Water filled the inside of his mask as Tim gasped, his thighs straining as he hung upside down from the rope. He raised his head, wheezing, and turned his near-blinded gaze onto the knots around his hands, the ones he’d been trying to untie for an hour.

He nearly smashed his teeth into his fists as he swayed from the rope, biting down on the knot and tugging in a desperate hope to loosen the binds. He hadn’t hit the panic button when he’d been surrounded by the thugs, and by the time he realized that he was outmatched, they’d already jabbed the electric baton into his ribs.

Batman was off-world. Nightwing was in Bludhaven. Oracle was not omniscient, despite how much they pretended she was, and she wouldn’t check in for another hour, by which time Tim could be floating in Gotham Bay.

He needed to get out. He yanked harder, ignoring the ache in his teeth and the quivering of over-exhausted muscles. No one was coming for him, and he needed to take advantage of this opportunity to get out before –

Gunfire. Sudden and loud and not the small caliber bullets that most thugs in Gotham used. That was the distinctive sound of armor-piercing rounds.

Tim gnawed desperately on the rope, and was rewarded when one of the knots slid free. The other unraveled quickly afterwards, but that was also the point when his fatigued muscles gave up the ghost. The rope slipped through his gloves, and his thighs trembled and gave out entirely.

The ground slammed into already tender shoulder blades, and Tim couldn’t entirely suppress the scream as he arched off the cement floor, curling up with a sob.

There was the faintest pause in the gunfire.

_Shit_.

Tim forced himself up to hands and knees, ignored the shrieking fire pulsing through his muscles, and pushed up to his feet. _Twisted ankle_. Tim swore and hobbled a step forward, wrapping one arm below the throbbing ache in his chest, briefly pausing at the sight of his mangled fingers.

Huh. He hadn’t noticed that. He did remember his staff being kicked out of his hand by a steel-toed boot, though.

Everything in his body ached. Side effect of the electrocution, he presumed, or the growing bruises from the beating, and his muscles kept twitching and jittering and Tim barely managed to make it to the door before he crumpled, his legs spasming before cutting out entirely.

Tim took one moment – _deep breath_ , Bruce said in his head, _always remember the deep breath_ , and Tim had responded cheekily, _but what if there’s fear toxin_ – before grasping the door handle and using it to pull himself up. A tremor ran up from his heel to his knee, but his legs held.

Tim was still pulling the door open, wavering on his feet, when the opposite door – the one where all the gunfire was coming from – burst open.

Tim recognized the red helmet. Then he _ran_.

He swayed as he forced his muscles to cooperate, running down the darkened hallway and nearly slamming into the wall as he tried to take the corner, waiting to hear the burst of gunfire or the sharp torrent of pain as bullets tore through his back.

Booted footsteps followed at a stride that was too fast for Tim’s peace of mind, outpacing him easily, and Tim dived into the first room he found – desk, desk, _no window_ , the gap between the cabinet and the ground was wide enough to squeeze through, and maybe narrow enough that Hood wouldn’t find him.

“Replacement,” Hood called out, mechanized voice too close, and Tim made the decision.

The sharp edge of the cabinet pressed into his back as he squirmed inside – his ankle banged against one of the legs and he had to bite down on his hand to avoid screaming as the world flashed white – his heart was beating too fast against constricting ribs and Tim muffled his breathing with his cape as his arm hit the wall.

“Replacement,” Hood growled, stalking into the room, “I know you’re in here.”

Tim’s eyes were burning again, and he desperately tried to suppress the hitched breaths. He needed to be silent. The gap between cabinet and floor was wide enough to aim a gun. Narrow enough to be sure to hit the target.

“Come out,” Hood snapped, “ _Now_.”

_Why_ , Tim said in his head, _so you can try to kill me again?_ No thanks – he’d been there, done that, had all the scars to prove it.

The last time, he’d been in fighting condition. Now, panic was the only thing keeping him awake.

“ _Replacement_ ,” Hood snarled, “This isn’t a game. The warehouse is rigged to blow. Come _on_.”

_Not falling for that_ , Tim mentally sing-songed. He debated the chances of it being true – there had been some suspicious barrels in one of the rooms he’d explored. Hood could be right.

He weighed the risks. If Hood was lying and Tim ventured out, then he’d end up at Hood’s mercy. If he was telling the truth and Tim stayed here, he’d die in a messy explosion.

Hood didn’t have any mercy.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and sent a brief mental apology to Bruce. He didn’t deserve to have two successive Robins die in explosions. Maybe the next one would be better when confronted with warehouses and bombs.

“Fucking _hell_ , Replacement,” Hood said, low and vicious, “If that’s how you want to play it, _fine_.”

Tim did not like the sound of that.

Booted footsteps stomped back towards the door – was he actually leaving – and into the corridor. Tim counted his breaths, and got to twenty before Hood returned, hauling something heavy.

“Okay, Replacement, you’ve got two options. Either come out, or one of the henchmen gets it.” The threat was punctuated by the sound of a safety clicking off.

Tim squinted, but he couldn’t see Hood’s boots in his field of view, or the hostage. He took a deep breath and –

A gunshot shattered the silence.

“Next one goes in their head,” Hood said, “And I have plenty more fodder to use.”

“Okay!” Tim shouted, “Okay, I’m coming out, don’t kill them.”

Hood made a murmured sound that might’ve been _‘predictable’_ , and footsteps neared Tim’s hiding place as he forced his fingers to uncurl and slowly inch towards the gap. Boots stopped just short of the cabinet – heavy and thick.

“How the _fuck_?” Hood muttered, before a red helmet filled the gap that Tim was crawling towards.

Tim froze.

The blank helmet regarded him dispassionately, before a gloved hand wrapped around Tim’s wrist and _yanked_.

Tim stifled the cry as he was dragged out, his head banging painfully against the edge of the cabinet as Hood nearly pulled his arm out of his socket, his shoulder shrieking at the pressure. Hood didn’t even pause for Tim to regain his feet once he was out from under the cabinet, hauling him up and pushing him towards the door.

Tim stilled when he caught sight of the body. “You lied,” he breathed out, panic clawing in his throat.

“Yup,” Hood replied, forcing Tim through the door, “They were dead before I dragged them here.”

“Wait – what are you – why did –”

“Bomb. Two minutes left on the timer. Less talking, more running, Replacement.”

But the bomb wasn’t real. Was it?

Tim stumbled on the next step, his twisted ankle giving out from under him, and Hood made an impatient sound and grabbed him by the waist, ignoring Tim’s flailing to throw him over a shoulder.

Tim felt the breath punched out of him as he landed on a growing bruise on his stomach, and the temporary lack of oxygen forced him to stay limp as Hood carried them out of the building.

To his surprise, he was set down on a rooftop a block away.

To his greater surprise, the warehouse actually blew up once his internal timer wound down to zero.

To his infinite surprise, Hood turned his back on Tim to watch the flames, without even the hint of a gun waved in his direction.

This was his chance. Tim eyed the distance to the next roof and took a step towards the ledge, bracing his weight –

_Goddamn twisted ankle_.

Hood turned at Tim’s sharp cry as he crumpled to his knees on the rooftop – his knees didn’t feel like holding him either, and Tim twisted to take the impact on his side instead of his aching back or throbbing ribs.

Hood stood over him, red helmet facing down. Tim wished he had his staff, or any of his gear, or even fingers in working order. Hood didn’t make a move for his gun, though, didn’t draw it out and aim it at Tim’s forehead and pull the trigger. Or start small, making sure Tim couldn’t run with bullets to kneecaps, before working his way up as Tim bled and screamed. Or threaten, one finger on the trigger as that distorted voice mused over all the different ways that Robin’s wings could be clipped.

Tim tried to take advantage of his preoccupation, whatever it was, and forced himself into a half-lunge, half-drag as he aimed for the edge of the rooftop. His ribs screamed with the effort, and his broken fingers twitched as he sprawled painfully on the rough concrete.

Boots stepped past him and into his path, tensing as Hood crouched. The man was still eerily silent, and Tim choked on a sob and squeezed his eyes shut when Hood reached for his wrist.

He wouldn’t even have to do much. Just hold Tim’s hand and tighten his grip, millimeter by millimeter, until bones shifted beneath skin and Tim started screaming.

Hood’s grip was loose, and his fingers skimmed carefully over the injuries, pressure just light enough to not be painful. Oh, god, he was going to drag this out, wasn’t he?

Tim took a ragged inhale and swallowed past the lump in his throat, his eyes hot and burning.

Hood snarled something unintelligible, low and furious, and Tim couldn’t even flinch back. Panic and dread and flat-out terror couldn’t be sustained, and between the exhaustion and muscles spasms and his growing headache and Hood’s strange gentleness, Tim was quickly losing the battle to stay awake.

_Please_ , he prayed inside his head as the darkness closed around him, _let it be over by the time I wake up_.

* * *

Quiet shuffling around him. The touch of something cold and wet to the bruise along his jaw, and Tim scrunched his nose up at the sensation.

The cold touch dropped to his wrists, trailing along the aching soreness against the bone, and Tim made a soft whine, trying to tuck his arm back into the warmth that was covering him. There was a low, annoyed grumble as the grip tightened on his arm. “Calm down, kid,” a rough voice growled, “I’m not going to eat you.”

– _“Calm down, kid,” Robin laughed, handing his camera back, “You’re too scrawny to eat.” –_

The touch left tingles in its wake as the ache alleviated. Tim sighed, burrowing further into the heat. “Th’nks Rob’n,” he mumbled.

The hand gripping his arm froze, before the pressure vanished entirely.

Tim frowned, eyebrows drawing together, and fluttered open bleary eyes, registering beige walls, coffee table, _Jason_ –

Jason, who was looking at him with very wide and very green eyes.

Tim mentally rewound the last minute. And then immediately jumped up – ow, ow, _ow_ , nothing was happy with that decision, and especially not the goddamn twisted ankle he landed on _again_ , but Tim felt a whole lot better with a couch between him and Jason.

Tim spared a moment to glance at his surroundings – shithole apartment in Gotham, okay, nothing new, except for the glaring blankness of _how the hell he’d gotten here_.

The smugglers. That electric baton. He remembered running, remembered hiding, remembered _Hood_.

Tim staggered back until he hit a wall, the pressure painful against his throbbing shoulders. Jason was still next to the couch, face blank but eyes burning green, and Tim couldn’t believe he was woozy enough to call him Robin to his face, this was the part where Tim died painfully and _oh god, it was going to hurt_ –

Tim felt like he was looking at the scene through a glass wall. It wasn’t his lungs heaving, panic constricting his throat as he fought for a breath, those weren’t his hands, wrapped and splinted, raised in a futile attempt to hold off Jason, those weren’t his cheeks dripping wet as Tim struggled to breathe.

That wasn’t his almost-murderer standing six feet away from him.

Jason didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just watched, blank and dispassionate, as Tim hyperventilated in the corner.

“Why –” why was Tim here, why were his wounds bandaged, _why_ – “Why did you kidnap me?”

Jason’s face immediately shifted to murder. Whoops.

“I didn’t kidnap you,” the older boy snarled, spinning on his heel, stalking to the door, and violently wrenching it open. It revealed a plain hallway on the other side, faded carpet, metal railing, peeling paint. “You can leave.”

It was a trick. It had to be a trick. Tim step-hobbled towards the door, sticking to the far wall of the room as he eased his way across, careful not to take his eyes off Jason.

He nearly tripped ten steps from the door, which brought up an important point – he wasn’t wearing his Robin suit. He was wearing the leggings that went underneath it, and a shirt that was so big it was nearly falling off one shoulder. He didn’t have his comm, or his gear, or his staff.

“Where’s my stuff?” Tim asked quietly.

Jason’s expression shifted, something writhing behind the rage. He stomped through one of the two side doors and returned with a bulky bag, tossing it so that it slid to Tim’s feet.

Tim warily picked it up, gaze still fixed on the larger threat. If it was a bomb, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

It wasn’t a bomb. It was – on a cursory, brief glance as he tried not to look away from Jason – his gear. No staff though – he’d lost that before he’d happened upon Hood. Before Hood had happened upon him. Before Hood had kidnapped him.

Jason made a sharp, irritated motion towards the doorway, still glaring. Tim inched forward, trying to keep his weight off of his bad ankle as he kept recalculating the odds of Jason lunging out and slamming him to the ground and choking the life out of him.

Jason didn’t attack. Not even when Tim’s fingers curled around the doorframe. Not even when he stumbled out. Not even when Tim took a wavering step down the hallway.

  
The door slammed shut behind him, and Tim flinched as the sound reverberated in the narrow hallway.

Tim had no idea what was going on, but he was going to get out before Jason changed his mind.

Still wary of a trap, Tim inched down the stairs, rifling through the bag – it looked like all his gear was there, and he mentally debated changing back into the Robin suit. But as injured as he was, he wouldn’t be able to put up a fight against anyone gunning for his head, and right now, the shirt and leggings were a better disguise than the red-black-yellow.

It was only when Tim stepped outside the building that he remembered that Hood operated mainly out of Crime Alley. Gotham was unsafe in broad daylight, but Crime Alley was still the worst of it, even at the witching hour. Tim tightened his grip on the bag and stuck to the shadows, trying to avoid leaning too long on his bad ankle.

Unfortunately, after one block, the painful throbbing tipped up into excruciating, and Tim stopped, leaning against the brick wall of an alley as he tried to regain his breath. He wouldn’t be able to limp all the way back to his house. He wouldn’t even be able to limp another block.

The grapple was out of the question, his comm had been shorted out in his brief exposure to electrocution, and Tim highly doubted there was a security camera in Crime Alley that he could use to trigger Oracle’s search algorithm.

He could make it to a rooftop and spend the night there, waiting for Oracle to call in his disappearance and Nightwing to come looking. Tim ducked further into the alley, hunting for a fire escape.

The shadows moved.

Tim stepped back – he counted one, two, three men looming out of the darkness, nasty sneers on their faces. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see another cutting off his escape, blocking the mouth of the alley.

He could feel their gazes dip to his exposed collarbone, and catch on the bag in his hands. “Running away, kid?” one of them asked, faux sympathetic, no doubt cataloguing the bruises dotting his arms and face. The other two didn’t bother to hide their leers.

Tim’s hand slipped into his bag and closed around his birdarangs. He found three by touch. Not enough. Not when he couldn’t even stand on two feet.

“I’m fine,” Tim said steadily, “I’m just heading to the bus stop.”

“We can escort you there,” the first one said, smiling, “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I’m fine,” Tim repeated, pressing back against the wall. If he used all three at the man blocking his escape, and ran – it would hurt, but it would hurt a whole lot less than what these men had planned.

“Don’t worry, kid,” the man said, stepping closer, “It’s on our way.”

Tim’s fingers tightened on the birdarangs, and he took a deep breath. The first man reached out, and –

_Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang_. The echoes rang in Tim’s ears as he froze, birdarangs biting into his fingers. The thud of bodies hitting the ground. The spreading pools of blood, dark in the flickering orange streetlight.

Tim looked up, and met an impassive red helmet.

The whine of a grapple. Boots hitting the asphalt and brick scraping against Tim’s back in his effort to press back. The red helmet, suddenly in front of him, gloved hands descending on his shoulders.

“You – you killed them.”

The hands on his shoulders tightened. “What,” Hood growled, “Do you think they would’ve done to _you_ if I hadn’t been here? Yes, kid, _I killed them_. Scum like that don’t deserve to live.”

Tim stared blankly at the bodies, his hands trembling. Hood – Hood had been following him. He had never intended to let Tim get away. This was a _game_ , like a cat slowly stalking after a wounded mouse.

Tim took another inhale, and it cracked mid-breath. “Stop,” he whispered, shoving away from Hood’s grip as the bag spilled to the ground, “ _Stop it_. I don’t know what you’re doing, Hood, but just _stop_.”

Hood stared at him, helmet turning his emotions completely unreadable.

“What the hell do you _want_?” Tim shouted, frustration and fear bringing tears to his eyes, “Me dead? Then just _kill me_!” He forced a step forward, arm’s reach of Hood, and glared up at the helmet. Hood didn’t move.

“Stop playing all these games,” Tim choked, his breath catching in his throat, “Please, Hood. I’m tired. Just take whatever the hell you want.” Another step forward, and he’d be nose-to-nose with Hood if he was eight inches taller.

The helmet angled down at him, but Hood didn’t say a word. Didn’t move towards his guns, or his knives, or any other weapon hiding in his pockets.

“Just stop, Jason,” Tim whispered, pressing his face to the red bat and closing his eyes as hot tears spilled onto his cheeks. “Please.”

Gloved hands curled around his elbows as Tim sagged, exhaustion and resignation intertwining. He shivered as a breeze cut through the alley, piercing past the thin shirt and carrying the scent of blood.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Hood said finally.

Tim exhaled, and kept his eyes shut. _I don’t believe you_ , he didn’t say out loud.

* * *

Hood took him back to his apartment. Safehouse. Torture den, maybe, Tim hadn’t checked the other rooms. He left Tim slumped on the couch, returning from the kitchen with his helmet off and a glass of water in one hand.

He handed the water to Tim, who took it automatically. He frowned at the glass, before dragging his gaze back up to Jason.

“It’s not poisoned, kid,” Jason said, somehow managing to sound offended.

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it?” Tim asked, exhaustion and fatalism managing to temporarily disable his brain-to-mouth filter.

“I said that I don’t want to kill you, Replacement,” Jason snarled, green eyes flashing.

“And,” Tim repeated slowly, “I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

If Jason hadn’t been murderous before, he certainly was now – Tim could hear the creak of leather as Jason balled his hands into fists.

“I got you out of the warehouse,” Jason said, clipped, “I saved your life.”

“You kidnapped me,” Tim pointed out.

“I did _not_ kidnap you! You’re free to leave!”

“While you _follow_ me –”

“Excuse me for trying to prevent you getting knifed in an alley –”

Tim laughed, the sound high and sardonic and viciously unamused, and Jason’s scowl flickered into confusion. “Oh, you were trying to _protect_ me?” Tim asked, his voice automatically smoothing to his best version of Janet Drake’s sneer as he straightened to his feet, “Is that your excuse? Is that what you expect me to believe?”

Jason’s expression furrowed deeper into a frown.

“Cut the _crap_ , Jason,” Tim snapped, clutching the glass of water tightly and ignoring the brief flares of pain from his broken fingers, “Stop pretending to be a hero.”

Jason’s eyes flashed as he stepped forward, a low growl building in his throat. “You don’t get to tell me who I am, Replacement,” Jason snarled.

“I know exactly who you are,” Tim seethed, frustration climbing higher to smother out common sense and the voice loudly shrieking that he was trying to play chicken with a murderer. “And I know you want me dead.”

“I don’t!”

“Really?” Tim lost his grip on his patience and his temper. The glass flew across the room to impact the far wall, the water sloshing out as the glass hit the ground and shattered into several pieces.

“You broke four of my bones.” The knickknacks on the coffee table – a book landed in the puddle of water, and a puzzle box cracked against the wall.

“You shot me three times.” The couch cushions, splitting at the seams as stuffing dropped to the floor.

“You beat me with _my own staff_.” A magazine, and Tim tore through it in a frenzy, ripping pages out and shredding them into limp confetti.

“You slit my throat!”

His voice was hoarse and raw, and he’d run out of things to destroy in easy reach. He felt hollow inside, the same curl of disappointment and fear and disbelief that had settled inside his heart when he’d watched his childhood hero raise a knife with green eyes glinting and face twisted into a mocking sneer.

Jason stared at him, still and unmoving, face blank except for the uncontrolled flickering of his green eyes.

Tim swallowed.

Glass shards, cushion stuffing, and torn paper decorated the floor in a soggy mess. Tim’s bag of gear was lying near the door, behind Jason, completely out of his reach.

And Jason’s hands were curled into fists so tightly they were trembling.

Tim took a stumbling step back. And another. And another, ignoring the jolt of pain from his twisted ankle as he backed away from Jason. His back hit one of the side doors and he fumbled for the doorknob, broken fingers twisting sharply to open it and trip through.

He closed the door as soon as he was inside, faintly registering a bed and dresser as he limp-hobble-stagger-crawled to the further corner, curling up tightly and burying his head in his knees. His breath hitched, and his eyes prickled again, frustration seeping away to bone-cold dread.

Tim choked down his sobs and squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to focus on breathing properly. Deep breaths in and out.

_Green eyes, dancing with madness_ –

Deep breaths, in and out.

_The imprint of fingers around his throat_ –

Deep breaths.

_The cold touch of a knife at his throat, the terror, the incredulity, surely he couldn’t, surely he_ wouldn’t –

Breathe. He had to breathe.

_The slow, agonizing burn as the knife sliced across his throat._

Tim choked on his next breath as the door opened with a precise, violent jerk that was as silent as it was furious.

“Get out,” Jason said.

Tim staggered up to his feet, wavering.

“Get out,” Jason repeated, “Stay on the couch. Sleep on the floor. Leave and end up in a gutter somewhere. I don’t give a fuck. _Get out of my room_.”

Tim hobbled out, careful not to brush past Jason on his way out. He paused in the hall, watching, waiting. Jason was still hovering in the doorway.

“I don’t want you dead,” Jason said, the sincerity of his message undercut by the slow, measured tone and the fingers gripping the doorframe. He paused, sharp eyes glancing over Tim and catching on his twisted ankle. “If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll give you a ride to the Manor.”

Tim stared at him.

“Take my word for it,” Jason said, something sharp sliding into his tone, “Or don’t. It’s not my problem.”

With that, he closed the door. Tim slowly slid back onto the couch.

* * *

Tim should’ve left. Logically, reasonably, by any standards of common sense, he should’ve gotten out of his near-murderer-maybe-kidnapper’s apartment. There was no reason to stay. He had his stuff. He knew the streets of Gotham well, knew how to unobtrusively make it back to his house. Yes, he was injured, but that was all the more reason to get as far away from Jason as possible.

Tim should’ve left. Instead he was lying on the couch and staring up at the ceiling. Jason had cleaned up the mess Tim had made, and Tim sorted through the contents of his gear – which could be summed up as woefully inadequate – and he could leave. He could manage a painful trip staggering back home. He _could_.

_“If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll give you a ride to the Manor.”_

He couldn’t trust Jason. He _shouldn’t_ trust Jason. Jason lied. Jason might have not wanted him dead, but he certainly wanted him beaten. Hood had murdered four people in front of him like he was dropping flies. Tim couldn’t believe a word he said.

And that was the worst part. He _knew_ it, knew that Jason hated him, knew exactly why Jason hated him, and yet something inside of him refused to let go of the image of Robin laughing brightly, daring the world to strike him down.

The world _had_ struck him down. The world had turned him into a monster. Robin was _dead_. Why was it so difficult for his heart to get the memo?

Tim curled his arms against his aching chest and pretended that the sharp, tearing pain was solely due to the broken ribs.

_He tried to kill me_ , Tim mentally argued.

_But he saved you_ , eleven-year-old Timmy proclaimed.

_It doesn’t cancel each other out_ , Tim snarled, _that’s not how it works_.

_Then how_ does _it work_ , Timmy asked, quiet and serious.

Tim didn’t have an answer.

He sighed, burrowing further into the couch. If Jason was telling the truth, a ride would be infinitely preferable to trying to limp to the opposite side of Gotham. If Jason was lying…if Jason was lying, then he’d break Tim’s trust a second time. There wouldn’t be a third.

His contemplation was rudely interrupted by a muffled cry. Tim shot up, Robin’s instincts humming strong, and winced as his body strenuously protested the rapid movement. He eased off the couch more carefully, tilting his head as he attempted to pinpoint the source.

Another cry, like a strangled scream. Soft, broken sobs. It was coming from Jason’s room.

Tim hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.

_I survived three years on the streets with nothing but a camera and pepper spray_ , little Timmy groaned, _and you threw away every one of those self-preservation instincts when you became Robin_.

Tim ignored him, and turned the doorknob.

Jason was thrashing in the bed, arms flinging out like he was trying to escape his blanket, soft, cracked whimpers interspersed with broken pleas, muttering Bruce’s name in between choked screams.

Tim reached forward and grabbed his ankle, jerking it sharply – Jason’s eyes snapped open immediately, twin pools of acid green latching onto him like lasers in the darkness.

Tim didn’t even see Jason move, but suddenly the green eyes were much closer and the floor was digging into his back and there were fingers around his throat and Tim was breathing too fast. “Jason,” he choked out as the grip tightened, broken fingers shrieking as he attempted to claw Jason’s hand off, “ _Jason_.”

“ _Replacement_ ,” Jason hissed and Tim’s breath caught in his throat, his heart kicking up a gear – he knew he should’ve left, he was such an idiot, he was going to die here –

It took Tim a long moment to realize that the green eyes were gone, as were the fingers around his throat. He slowly sat up, pressing a hand to his neck to reassure himself, and shifted, tracking the shadows of the room to find –

A figure curled up in the corner, hands over ears, breathing harsh and wavering.

“Jason,” Tim tried, and flinched back when Jason shuddered.

“Get out,” Jason hissed, his voice raw and cracked, and Tim scrambled to follow the order.

_Looks like you made your decision_ , his eleven-year-old self hummed inside his head as Tim warmed a glass of water in the microwave.

Robin may have died. But Jason had come back.

* * *

“Kid. Replacement. Wake up.”

Tim’s eyes felt like they’d been glued shut, and his head was hosting a shrieking band – awake sounded like a brand of torture.

“ _Replacement_. Come on.”

Tim mumbled something that might’ve been _‘five more minutes’_ if he managed to actually form the words.

“Tim. Get up.” A nudge to his shoulder and Tim groaned. He tried to bring his arm up to wipe at his eyes, but it shrieked at the movement and he aborted halfway through with a low whimper.

“Sore?” the rough voice asked.

Tim tried to mutter _‘fuck you, Jason’_ and succeeded in being clearer this time, because Jason huffed out a chuckle.

Hands curled around his shoulders and slowly, carefully tugged him up, until he was more-or-less upright. Tim managed to scrub at his face this time, clearing it enough to blink his eyes open before his muscles gave up and his arm dropped again.

“How are you feeling?” Jason asked, looking down at him.

“Like I was beaten and electrocuted for half an hour,” Tim groaned.

“Aren’t you happy you didn’t add explosions to that list of injuries?” Jason hummed, tugging the blanket off of Tim and folding it. Tim watched him through half-closed eyes.

“You said you’d take me to the Manor,” Tim managed to scrape out of his sore throat.

Jason stilled. “I did say that,” he replied quietly.

Tim watched as Jason moved around the room, straightening it up in what certainly felt like a stalling tactic as Tim’s heartbeat pounded faster and faster. Finally, Jason stopped and looked at him. “Well?” he said, “Are you going to get up?”

Tim wasn’t actually sure – the few hours of sleep had turned all his bruises into stiff muscles, and had done nothing for his exhaustion. He clenched his teeth and levered off the couch, forcing aching muscles to straighten as he pushed to his feet.

Pain lanced through him – sore muscles, shrieking ankle, screaming ribs, the dull ache of the knife wound, broken fingers throbbing, bruised wrists, and shoulders that felt like someone had wrenched them out of alignment and then set them on fire.

“A moment,” Tim swallowed, swaying, “Give me a moment.”

A hand closed around his elbow and prevented him from faceplanting on the floor. Tim tried not to lean his weight to that side, but then his knees buckled and he would’ve collapsed entirely if Jason hadn’t grabbed his waist and gently lowered him back to the couch.

“I am less convinced that you can make it back to the Manor in one piece,” Jason said dryly.

“I need to get back,” Tim said, rubbing his face and waiting for his legs to stop trembling. “It’s Sunday. Alfred makes crepes on Sunday.”

When he looked up at Jason, the older boy had turned into a statue.

“Wouldn’t want you to miss Alfred’s crepes,” Jason said finally, his voice soft. He sighed. “Alright, come on,” he held a hand out to Tim.

Tim gave him a wary glance before hesitantly reaching for it. Jason pulled him back up smoothly, not putting too much strain on his shoulder and letting Tim lean his weight on him as he waited for his legs to start functioning.

Their shuffle downstairs was slow as Jason half-carried Tim down the stairs and into the garage. Tim straightened when he saw what was waiting for them.

“There’s no way I’ll be able to stay on that thing,” Tim breathed out. It was gorgeous. It was gleaming red and massive and he’d bet it went really, _really_ fast. And Tim was for sure, one hundred percent, going to fall off.

He briefly considered that maybe _that_ was Jason’s plan for offing him, but it was, at the moment, only around thirty percent likely.

“You can sit up front,” Jason said, dropping a helmet over his head and going back to wheel the motorcycle out.

“Can I drive?”

“ _No_.”

“Jason –”

“Absolutely fucking not, Replacement – aside from the fact that you’ll keel over if I poke you, _you don’t get to drive my bike_.”

That – that was a thread of real rage in his tone. Tim swallowed, and fell silent.

After a long pause, Jason spoke up again, “You can put your hands on the handlebars if it makes you feel better.”

The bike was as fast as Tim thought it would be. His delight was swallowed by the roaring winds as Jason accelerated once they hit the bridge to Bristol, and Tim almost forgot that he’d been attacked at all by the time Jason rolled to a stop in front of the gates to the Manor.

Tim leaned out to punch in the entry code, and Jason drove up the driveway at a more sedate pace. Jason actually turned the key off, and got a hand under Tim’s elbow to help him off when it became clear that the reason his legs didn’t ache was because they’d turned into limp noodles.

Tim tugged his helmet off and held it out to Jason, significantly less scared at being so close to the older boy, but his heart pounding nonetheless. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Jason took the helmet. Tim pretended it was an acknowledgement of the thanks.

He almost turned to leave – go up to the Manor, collapse on his bed, forget the whole thing ever happened because the next time he happened upon Hood the man would most likely try to shoot him – but something kept him rooted to the spot.

_“Wouldn’t want you to miss Alfred’s crepes.”_ Driving him up to the literal front door of the Manor. Turning off the engine. Watching Tim watch him, though Tim couldn’t see anything past the dark tint of the helmet.

“Bruce is out of town,” Tim said, his mouth dry. Jason flinched at the name, but Tim soldiered on. “If you want – Alfred probably has enough for one more.”

Jason kept staring at him, his expression undetectable behind the helmet. Tim braced himself for a wide variety of reactions – an insult before Jason sped off, an attack, a vicious diatribe, or maybe Jason would just leave in utter silence and Tim would only know how badly he’d fractured the tentative détente when he met Hood on the rooftops – and carefully didn’t flinch when Jason kicked out the stand and got off the bike.

He removed the helmet and placed both of them on the bike. “Well,” Jason said, and his voice was too low to be as sardonic as he was clearly aiming for, “I deserve a reward for putting up with you.”

Tim grinned.

Alfred opened the door before they even had a chance to knock, his gaze flitting over both of them with no visible surprise. “Master Tim,” Alfred said, his gaze pausing over the splints on Tim’s fingers and the wrappings around his ankle, “You worried us when you didn’t check in last night.”

Which was Alfred code for _‘they’re still searching under every rock in Gotham because you know full well how they respond if a Robin goes missing’_.

“Sorry,” Tim said, trying not to wince, “Comm malfunctioned.” _When they were torturing me with an electric baton_ , he didn’t add.

Alfred didn’t seem amused by the conciseness of Tim’s report, but he turned to Jason easily enough. “Master Jason,” he said, his expression turning warmer, “Thank you for delivering Tim back home.”

“Yeah, well, I thought _‘hey, that’s one of the Wayne kids’_ and realized I’d get a pretty good ransom for him.”

“Oh?” Alfred raised an eyebrow, “And what sort of compensation were you looking for?” His lips were twitching.

Jason abruptly looked uncertain, inching back a half-step like he was unsure of his welcome. “The kid said you still make Sunday crepes,” he said quietly.

Something in Alfred’s expression tightened. “Of course,” he said softly, “I will set an extra plate for breakfast.” Alfred turned back to Tim, and his gaze sharpened on the way Tim was using the side table to keep himself upright. “Master Tim, perhaps you should go to bed.”

“I want crepes,” Tim blinked, trying to make his eyes go wide the way Dick taught him to – if Alfred thought he was just going to _go to his room_ with Jason in the Manor…

“Very well, Master Tim,” Alfred made a long-suffering expression, “You can make yourself comfortable in the breakfast nook while Master Jason helps me with breakfast.” Tim stumbled after him, and Jason caught him in a near-automatic movement.

The breakfast nook was a window seat in the back of the kitchen, nearly four feet wide and covered in pillows and cushions, and Tim didn’t resist when Alfred nudged him inside and tucked a blanket around him.

“I am glad to see you home safe,” Alfred said softly, and Tim made a tight smile that he hope conveyed _‘sorry for worrying you’_. Alfred patted his shoulder and returned to the other side of the kitchen.

Tim intended to stay awake, he really did, but the sunshine was warm through the window and the cushions were soft on his still aching muscles and his blinks were getting longer and slower and he drifted off to sleep to the sounds of a low, pleasant conversation, punctuated by Jason’s chuckles and Alfred’s fond amusement.

* * *

“You found Tim.”

“Yes.”

“ _You_ found _Tim._ ”

“Getting hard of hearing in your old age, Dickface?”

“You found Tim. And he’s still alive.”

“Didn’t feel like killing him. This time.”

“God _damn_ it Jason –”

“ _Shh_. He’s asleep.”

“…You’re up to something. I know you are. This is a trick, isn’t it? Some sort of game?”

“Yup. It’s called ‘How to Make Dickhead Tear Out His Hair’.”

“Very funny, Jason, but I’m not falling for this. Whatever it is.”

“…You’re upset about the crepes, aren’t you.”

“How _could_ you, Jay?! They’re Alfred’s Sunday crepes! They’re sacred! And you left me only _one_!”

“Oh, no, that’s for the Replacement.”

“ _Jaybird_.”

“You snooze, you lose, Dickie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tim sleeps through the entirety of Dick and Jason's ensuing fight and his big brothers tucking him into bed.


End file.
